


SYMBOLIC GESTURES

by Cerulean_Spork



Series: Shatterdome Heldensagen [4]
Category: KIPLING Rudyard - Works, Lilo & Stitch (2002), Pacific Rim (2013), V (1983), V (2009)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Gen, and politics, warnings for mention of conspiracy talk radio
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-23
Updated: 2013-09-23
Packaged: 2017-12-27 08:56:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/976884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerulean_Spork/pseuds/Cerulean_Spork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>in which the stress of impending K-Day anniversary ceremonies push everyone to the point that an unfortunate cascade effect occurs</p>
            </blockquote>





	SYMBOLIC GESTURES

”Mr. Becket.”

The older of the two Jaeger pilots loomed uncertainly over the Marshal's desk, wondering why he'd been summoned to his office, and wishing he'd thought to stop and grab a cup of coffee on the way over.

”Sir?”

”What is **wrong** with your brother?”

”Uh -- Sir? Has something happened to Raleigh?” Yancy looked round him in alarm, as though he could have missed hearing some terrible news in the small social circle of the Shatterdome.

”Not yet,” and if that didn’t sound ominous enough, the Marshal appeared to have that faint twinkle in his eye that meant he was smiling.

”What -- wait, Sir, do I _**want**_ to know?”

In answer, Pentecost flipped his screen view so that Yancy could clearly see the security cam view of the Shatterdome bay, live broadcast, the second-clock running in the corner.

”WHAT -- THE -- what did he DO to her? --Sir.”

”Well, that answers my **very** first question. I take it you didn’t know.”

Jaegers, as everyone well knows, are **very** large -- the largest mobile objects ever created by the human species, to be precise -- and one would **not** think that scattered discolorations covering an approximate surface area of not quite 250 square meters, or somewhat less than 300 square yards, would even be noticeable

One would be wrong, at least if said discolorations were neon green bumper stickers printed with neon orange text that was also, and strikingly so in the cavernous shadows of the bay, glow-in-the-dark. They were **quite** visible, not least for how they were concentrated in swooping patterns somewhat suggestive of stylized flames, such as were intermittently popular on American sport vehicles.

”Is this some sort of perverse **revenge** for that horn affair?”

 **”Huh?”** This wasn’t feigned incomprehension -- that business had been so long ago, many months even, and so much had happened since, most of it quite fun, like the Kaiju they had defeated here, and all the false alarms which were exciting even if they didn’t result in a victory, and that time they were called down to help out off Los Angeles, which had turned into a sea chase almost as far as Acapulco, and then they’d gone whale watching a little bit off Baja before calling for pickup, and -- “Oh no, **that’s** not -- he’s not holding any grudges about anything.”

”Then **why** has your brother -- last seen hitching a ride into town with the heads of Shipping & Receiving and Internal Transport, who both **coincidentally** scheduled leave today **last week,** which says they **at least** all have the sense to get out of the rain, which I suppose is **something** \-- plastered your Jaeger with **IT’S THE LIZARDS, STUPID!** placards from a certain notorious Conspiracist Radio site?” 

Pentecost zoomed in to maximum magnification, confirming that description. 

”Has he had a psychotic break? And, more to the point, how **contagious IS it?”**

There had been Kaiju Conspiracist theories from the start, and new ones sprouting every day, for years, vying in in the popular imagination (and on popular message boards!) with the Kaiju Cults -- whether avenging angel or infernal invader, certainly caused by whatever the believer fancied to be most immoral.

These ranged from mere denial that they existed **at all** (most popular east of the Mississippi River, and only among those who never traveled westward for business or pleasure and had no kin or friends that way, to those who believed that the entire mess was a fraud cooked up by the government in order to gain unregulated funds and military forces to put in place the anticipated New World Order. There were songs, and a popular music video, which had in turn itself spawned bumper stickers drawing on its lyrics -- “IT’S ALL IN YOUR HEAD/LOOK UNDER YOUR BED” the most popular of these.

Others, following the lead of the infamous British conspiracy creator Icke, declared that the Kaiju were real, but controlled by the reptilian alien royal dynasties that had infiltrated every nation of the world. (No amount of trying had succeeded in convincing a single subscriber to this theory that _V,_ whether the old miniseries or the new show, was just a fictionalized futurized version of the events of the Anschluss, WWII and the Resistance.) 

Most of the time these competing visions of the universe just **clashed** \-- even more hotly with each other as intolerable heretics than with the Kaiju Cultists -- turning news comments sections into furnaces of incoherent jargon and heated accusation, and the occasional street demonstration bloody.

But lately there had begun to be a fusion of them all, spearheaded by a few talk radio personalities -- formerly rivals, which was interesting -- notorious for their aggregated conspiracy compilations long before San Francisco, and thus having sizeable audiences primed to disbelieve in technology while believing in things far more preposterous. (Such as the notion that successful manned spaceflight was beyond human ability in 1969, but **not** the ability to seamlessly fabricate the illusion of a lunar landing across multiple platforms and media categories.

Somehow this new “KAIJU CREW” shock jock programming team had welded all the most popular bits and pieces of their old theories into a framework on which they’d fastened the least incredible bits of the new pool of conspiracies, and publicized them with vastly higher production values than anyone else, or ever before. 

And they’d struck a chord, all right. From coast to coast, even, because there were some people who couldn’t deal with the new state of things in their part of the country, and “coped” by denying that it was happening at all, just like some people did with diseases.

Having gotten started in the health supplement and holistic healing industries, the station was also a major vendor of Kaiju Remedies on this side of the ocean -- but since none of the products were yet on the DEA controlled substances list (and to be fair, the US government had bigger problems now than its War On Some Drugs But Not Others) this was allowed to pass by without organized official hassle, and they seemed well able to handle whatever individual or medical establishment lawsuits came their way.

They were, obviously, a major source of external friction to the Corps. 

”Just ignore them,” didn’t work as advice because they didn’t go away, and even if Alaska was overall supportive of the Jaeger Program (even if a cynic might point out that it did bring in quite a lot of revenue for a state without a diversity of natural resources) and Conspiracists thin on the ground locally, they advertised heavily and it was pretty nearly impossible to venture onto the internet without running across either their banners or their banner-bearers shouting about how it was all a farce, all the Incursions created by the government (all the governments being One, of course) and the casualties either false, inflated, or inflicted by the militaries in order to further their sinister ends.

Most of the time PPDC personnel were too busy, or too involved in their own lives and goals, to fret about it too much. But the closer the anniversary of K-Day drew near, the more extreme the extremists grew, and the more of them came out to play, and the Conspiracist channels ere multistreaming 24/7 now.

Apparently, with less than a fortnight to go, the strain had caused something to **snap** here, in a very terrible way.

The elder Becket managed to find his wits, or part of them, though he gripped the top of his head as though to prevent any more from fleeing in terror.

”I, I, uh -- knew he was spamming their site with sticker requests, but I didn’t think -- I mean, they **MUST** know what this address is, right? Sir, they wouldn’t send a crate of stickers to a PPDC mailstop, **would** they?”

”I believe a number of commercial post box services **and** the homes of local staff who live off-Dome were employed.”

”So.... **EVERYBODY had to know**.” His youthful face grew hard, and for a moment one could see what he’d look like in another twenty years. “Excuse me, Marshal--” 

Yancy pulled out his phone and punched up the squawkbox app. **”What the HELL, guys? Terry! Anya!** _ **HOW COULD YOU LET HIM DO THIS?”**_ crackled out over the speakers, making everyone on the bay floor jump and look around.

”Oh, they didn’t **let** him, Mr. Becket. I can’t **find** the division chiefs of Hull Maintenance, who seem to have missed the train **or** are nerving themselves to face the music, as both **are** presently on base but seem to be suffering from dead phone batteries and/or early onset hearing loss. But he **insists** it was **ALL** his own doing, from **start**....to **finish**.”

He paused for a moment to let the implications sink in.

”No way. No way he could have done all that by himself, Sir, not in one night. Not even one **week**.”

”So the security cameras say. **Yet** he continues to claim otherwise. I’m curious, Ranger -- did he REALLY think I’d let you go out in public, looking like that?”

”Marshal, I -- I don’t know what to say.”

”Well, you can **tell** your brother from me that so long as he continues to maintain that **he** applied somewhere in the vicinity of fifteen-thousand bumper stickers -- that’s per the ‘jelly-bean’ scan, the one we use to monitor quantities of particulate matter in the Breach, turns out you can use it **short range too** , who’d have thought? -- as I was saying, **if** he could put fifteen thousand bumper stickers on Gypsy Danger **by himself, overnight** , he can **take them all off** , by himself. With a **paint scraper**.”

Yancy covered his eyes and groaned.

”Raleigh, **Raleigh** _,_ _ **Raleigh**_ _.”_

”I see you begin to understand the **nature** of my **job** , Ranger Becket,” and the younger man had the strangest feeling that his commander was actually laughing at him, or his brother, or the whole situation, he couldn’t be sure which.

”So. Mr. Becket. You haven’t managed to remove anywhere near one-fifth of the graphics affixed to your Jaeger. But, you **still persist** in telling me that you and **you alone** were responsible for sticking them on her.”

The younger pilot stood to recruiting poster attention before him, his jaw set like a block of granite, his eyes staring straight past his commander with an expression both hunted and resolute, like those old prints of ‘The Stag at Bay’ that everyone used to have in their parlors, God alone knew why, his hands loose and empty at his sides.

 _ **”Yessir,**_ Marshal! Sir!”

”You **do** realize, Mr. Becket, that the security cameras trained on the docks and inside bays are **running all the time,** for safety reasons, and that they cannot actually **be** hacked into a loop as is done in the movies? _**Need**_ **I say more?** You’re **not** protecting anyone, we know **exactly** who assisted you from start to finish, from collecting the packages to transporting them from the break rooms to the loading dock to filling the crate and getting it onto the hangar floor. We know everything, **and** everyone.”

”Then you don’t **need** me to give you their names. Sir.” So very proud, so **very** young.

”That **is** correct.”

The silence stretched on and on and on. The click, when it came, was visible, and very nearly audible as well.

”You were just **testing** me. To see if I’d **rat** everybody out. “ Fury, then, and even more, **betrayal** in those sky-blue eyes.

”If you like. --Your crews already came and **fessed up** even before you’d finished removing a single one, in hopes of getting you cleared.”

Becket stared at him then with a completely different expression, one in which anger and pride had been replaced by a wounded, disbelieving hurt.

”But -- then -- _**why?”**_ He lifted up his hands, which were rough and red now, blistered despite the heavy work gloves he’d been using during his ordeal.

”You **claimed responsibility**. Should I have **called you a** _ **liar**_ to your face, Ranger?”

The boy blinked at him, uncomprehending, and he lost a smidgen of control.

”Why did you **do** it, Becket? Why deface your Jaeger with **lime green stickers** _ **right before K-Day**_ _?_ Was this a **\--** a -- **a dare** , or did you **have** some kind of rationale for it? The drop surgeon **assures** me you weren’t doing drugs.” 

_**And how in God’s name did you convince several score responsible adults that it was a good idea, for reasons they can’t even BEGIN to explain in ways that make sense?** _

The young man’s nostrils flared. He swallowed hard, grit his teeth in a different sort of resoluteness than his earlier defiance, and burst out, “They can’t just **keep SAYING** this **bullshit** , Sir! It’s just wrong how they can say stuff like that, all those people who **died** , they’re sayin’ **WE** killed them, and -- Somebody’s gotta **DO something!”**

 _ **Ah. So that WAS it. A very different sort of stupidity, then.**_

He smiled thinly, because tearing up was not part of a marshal’s job description.

”This is **America** , Mr. Becket, the home of free speech, is it not?”

”But **Sir!** It’s **NOT** _ **RIGHT.”**_

”So you _ **stole**_ **all their** _ **stickers**_.” Apparently they had **only** received 15k of them because he’d maxed out their inventory and couldn’t send for any more once it hit zero, which said just how much worse this all could have been.

”I **didn’t STEAL** them, Sir.” Oh, **so** indignant, and so **terribly** young. “I **won** them fair and square. Not **my** fault if they were **too** _ **dumb**_ to figure it out!”

”And then you **put them** _ **on your Jaeger**_ _._ Why?”

The American pilot made a hand-flapping gesture somehow strangely articulate of being at a loss for words. 

Curious, Pentecost suggested, “Did you see them as **Kaiju kills?”**

Another handwave, this time with a shoulder-roll of ambivalence.

 **”Were** you anticipating having them visible for the **cameras** at the K-Day Review?”

Less ambivalence in the answering shrug, a hint of a nod there.

”What **message** did you think that would send, to the world?”

”Ummm.....”

Pentecost sighed heavily.

”It made sense at the time?”

_” **Yessir**.”_

”Sleep deprivation **will** do that to a body. --Go get yourself a pressure washer. **Don’t forget** to requisition goggles, gloves, wellies **and** a raincoat, too.”

”Uh -- you don’t have to be like -- I mean, I--” Becket started to object that **of course** he wasn’t foolish enough to forget such precautions before starting such a very messy task, that he certainly wouldn’t **rush into it** without getting himself a set of the protective gear that the crews use to clean guts and Kaiju blue from between the plates and inner joints of the machinery. 

Pentecost only looked at him, and after a very short while he stopped sputtering, snapped to attention again and trudged away, picking absentmindedly at the newest calluses on his palms.

"He **hates** me." The lament was muffled, the younger Becket slumped over with his head resting on the Maintenance break room table in despair.

"He doesn't **hate** you. He just thinks you're a **nut** , same as me," his brother sighed across from him, quite preoccupied with dabbing liquid bandage all over Raleigh's palms. "Next time **check with me BEFORE** doing something like this. Okay?"

"I did! You said, ' **whatever** , man,' and that was it!"

"What **time** was it? Did you ask me in the middle of the night? Gah! Of **course** you did!" But his expression was fond and after he'd capped and stashed the bottle in the break room medical cabinet, he came back to tousle the younger Becket's hair. "Now **don't** pick at them again! You're **too old** for me to still be telling you that."

Yancy slid into his brother's discarded raincoat and grabbed the pressure washer standing by, snagging a pair of gloves and a set of goggles from the rack as he stumped out to take his turn at the work.

Mournfully Raleigh sat with bowed head, his gloom not lightened at all by this attempt at cheering up, and started to pick at the edges of the synthetic skin sealing down his blisters -- at least until Peregrine Leader gave him the back of her hand to the back of his ear, not very hard.

The Jumphawk crews had no **real** reason to be down in Hull Maintenance but felt it a duty on their part, part of the old esprit de corps and after all, **some** of them had known about it, to the point of providing PO boxes and delivery services...

 **"Ow!** I stopped!"

"Next time, I'm putting **duct tape** over those. No, I'm doing that **now**. Terry, pass me some tape and the paper towels, please."

Junior Jaeger pilot waited patiently while senior helicopter pilot improvised a protective wrap for his hands, and then pried in vain at the nearly indestructible layers of her handiwork just to be sure.

"M sorry I got everybody in trouble," he mumbled -- but loudly enough for everyone to hear, picking a few loose strands from the edges of the gray plastic.

The other Jumphawk leader said in his heavy East Coast baritone, "We're **not** in trouble. **Nobody's** in trouble. We're all **in the doghouse**. There's a big difference."

"I don't see it."

"It's...a style thing. No, correction -- a **substance** thing," explained George Smythe, who used to teach Professional Military Ethics at the Naval War College, back before K-Day. "If it was **trouble** , the Maintenance logs wouldn't have been accepted. They'd have been queried, and **we'd** have been queried. Ergo, no trouble."

"But you didn't see his face. He--"

 _ **He was SO DISAPPOINTED!** _ and _**He was SCREWING WITH MY HEAD!** _ warred for expression, and the eventual outcome was a depressed, "He **totally** hates me now."

"Nah, that's just Officering 101. They have classes in looking scary and everything," said Ted Kostas, who'd been an MP in the US Army before K-Day. "Honest, they **do."**

"But he thinks it was just **vandalism** ! That -- God, that I was disrespecting the Corps and everything!"

His accomplices sighed.

"He's **English.** You know how **you** don't get our thing about political effigies and puppets?" Mary-Alice Hernandez (of La Paz, Baja California Sur, Los Angeles, California, and the Cirque du Soleil, now SD-AK Electrical Systems) asked. "It's like that. Look, you **apologized** , right? So it's over. It'll blow over, everything's gonna be **fine."**

"Except we **still** have about five thousand stickers to go."

"There **is** that."

"I don't get why he made me do it by myself BY HAND if he wanted them **off** before the parades!"

Anya Kuzmina (native of WeHo, and once a champion surfer, long before the War) -- who had spent several miserable hours with Terry Reid (Vancouver, pre-Incursion, still a sculptor of metals in his free time) huddled outside in the space under one of the big launch area piers (the space that was a complete dead zone to all signals due to the combination of metal and bedrock and saltwater) staring at each other with the mute horrified clarity of the profoundly sleep-deprived in the cold light of morning, before nerving each other and themselves to face the heat -- looked up at the ceiling, shaking her head.

"You were **supposed** to take responsibility by saying you **told us** to do it. Instead, you **lied** to him. You **don't** lie to the man. **Not** to Pentecost."

"But **Tendo** does."

The older woman sighed.

"Mr. Choi says things that **he** knows the **Marshal knows** that he knows **aren't true.** That's **not** lying."

"But -- the Marshal **knew** that I knew it wasn't true, either."

"Yes, but you **didn't** know that he knew that. So you **were** lying. So you got in trouble."

"But now you're not," Linda Seong (formerly of Portland, Oregon, now SD-AK Hydro Systems, most of the time, but Craft Services for fun) said consolingly.

"But I **still** have to scrub them all off."

"That's called **consequences** , kid."

"Hey. 'Least you gotta pressure washer now!"

"And you know **way** more about Jaegers than you ever learned in school -- it's a learning experience!"

Their cheerful, even boisterous good humor belied the feelings of his elders on this occasion -- all of them felt very badly about this mess, all of them were filled with nearly boundless admiration of the boy's stupid defense of them all, to say nothing of the way he had gamely borne his fate and crawled all over the hull with as much determination (if not the same enthusiasm) as he had when helping to apply the decals -- and **all** of them had, indeed, gone to Pentecost's office directly upon hearing of his sentence.

Gyrfalcon Leader had even attempted to argue that the arduous nature of the task (compounded as it was by the impetuous way that the perpetrator had rushed off to begin it without first getting a pair of work gloves) was a danger to 'Dome **readiness** \-- never mind that the last Incursion had been a mere two months ago, and thus an irrelevancy.

The Marshal had given him a particularly bleak stare, for his pains.

"Mr. Donati, I **have** your records. **All** of your records, **including** those from your time in the Coast Guard. Is it not the case, or **am I mistaken** , that you once helped evacuate seven passengers and four crew from a swamped yacht, **with** a gash in your arm requiring forty-six stitches from having been tossed into a broken spar by the **wind** during your descent to the vessel?"

The other man said nothing, because there was nothing to be said to **that**.

"Are you **suggesting** that our Rangers are not **capable** of such dedication, **or** such exertion? Because **if** you see such a lack in our pilots, then both our training regimens and our selection process are in **severe** need of overhaul."

The following silence lasted only long enough for Paul Donati, present Gyrfalcon JGL and past USCG rescue chopper crew, to swallow hard and get his voice under control.

 **"No,** Sir."

"Glad to hear it. --You can go now." The Marshal's voice was, as had been the case throughout, affable and edged with just enough pity to draw blood.

_**At least he didn't say something about my kindheartedness getting me into trouble--** _

"Oh, and Mr. Donati, your **compassion** doesyou credit, but Raleigh Becket is as much **a soldier** as you or I. He doesn't **deserve** to be patronized like a child."

"...No, Sir."

He had gone away filled with fury and bitter admiration for his commanding officer, and then he'd called his cousin in Providence who ran a body shop and asked if there was something they used at La Bambina Collision to take off old bumper stickers before starting a job, and after she'd given him a recommendation and a backup one, he'd made some calls around the city.

After passing the hat (or **helmet** , technically speaking) he'd gone into town with a very large truck and returned with a bed full of large plastic tubs filled with gray goop and prominently marked with skulls and crossbones.

This the maintenance crews had taken to slather over as much of the remaining square footage of bumper stickerage as would reach, while the junior pilot was for once quite dead to the world in his cabin, and not at all likely to stumble across the stuff and make distressed noises about how much it was costing them.

They probably **had** the chemicals on site to make their own formulation of something that would work better than their "blue goo" removers so far. (It sometimes seemed like they had **everything** in the Shatterdome -- **except** the exact thing you needed right that second, because Murphy.)

But Donna (who'd never forgiven her parents for cutely christening her "Donato," and after dealing with the parish school administrators' _Groundhog Day_ typo queries year after year they'd conceded she had a point, and showed significantly less distress at her changing her name legally than at her changing herself, **or** the name of the family business from Donati  & Sons) swore by this stuff, claimed it would dissolve the most stubborn vinyl adhesive ever misapplied, **without** destroying the underlying paint.

There had been **consequences** all right, and if young Raleigh's were the most painful in the most obvious ways -- well, he wasn't the only one with fresh blisters these days, and there were few things more agonizing as being the responsible oldster who let a kid get themselves into trouble without hindering them, or -- worse yet, for no few -- abetted them in their rush to disaster.

There had been a reason they'd made such a mess of the timing -- everyone had known instinctively, with barely any need to bring it up in the, well, it was hard to call it "planning" since it had mostly been conducted in offhand remarks in various break rooms and parking lots and mess hall lines, that it **had** to be done on a night when the LOCCENT chief was not only off duty, but had a gig downtown, too.

Not because he wouldn't **understand** \-- as a Californian, few better! -- but because it would have been wrong to put Choi in the position of betraying **somebody** , because he'd have **had** to tell the Marshal, out of duty, but he might not have been **able** to, either.

So they'd gone and done it behind his back without any online involvement to give the game away -- Becket Junior's dossing of the Conspiracist site wasn't the sort of thing to raise any flags in the system (though in hindsight it was obvious from the timestamps that it had been the most brutish of brute-force attacks humanly possible, but the outgoing traffic logs just showed aggregate hits, at the top level) -- by voice, mostly, though the old-fashioned folded paper note was as good as an IM, and far more secure!

"Analog Flash Mob" was a pretty good band name, come to think of it...

They'd gone in dread of what he'd say, especially the LOCCENT staff who'd been on watch that night, but he hadn't said anything. **Not anything**. (Which was kind of worse.)

He **had** done the most comical double-take in the history of double-takes when he'd finally noticed the next morning, having walked briskly right past without even looking up from the hardcopy backups just in from SD-LA, all the way upstairs into the fishbowl, directly over to his console and then, only then, looking out on the bay floor and spotting their handiwork. 

Nobody in Ops was laughing, though, everyone in the cold light of morning having come to the conclusion that this was very likely the worst idea in the history of bad ideas, no matter how great it had seemed during the past three weeks that Raleigh Becket had been working on it.

And their chief said **nothing**. Not a single word.

He had frowned, very thoughtfully, and wandered almost absentmindedly back down to the bay floor, circling the Jaeger and staring up at her with an expression both pained and almost wistful, before climbing the gantries to get a better view of the damage.

Then he'd typed a short note to the Shatterdome's commander -- one that was mirrored on everyone's terminal, however.

_**Sir? You might want to take a look downstairs.  
Please don't be drinking anything, when you do. --TC** _

And then he went on not saying anything to anyone about it, just pulled the relevant camera and server logs when requested and returned to their normal workday routine as if their Jaeger weren't covered with neon green bumper stickers that had spontaneously, mysteriously appeared on his day off.

He didn't even ask the Corps members who had been at the coffee house (because everybody **always** went to each other's things, out of loyalty, out of liking for the arts they performed, and because the night life scene in Anchorage was not what people from warmer and/or more populous cities were used to) and that was probably the worst, most humiliating part.

Choi knew that he didn't **want** to know, and LOCCENT felt like crawling under their desks, and stared out at their bestickered Jaeger, slowly being destickered with much elbow grease, nominally by one Raleigh Becket, and wondered what the hell they had **all** been thinking...

The fact that there hadn't been **any** explosion of **any** kind, on the part of **either** senior Shatterdome officer, had been the most boggling -- and the most terrifying -- part of it.

 **"Did we** _**break** _ **them?"** Luis Silva (born in El Paso, TX, there an assistant manager for UPS once upon a time) in Shipping  & Receiving had wondered with manic humor, his surf-waxed spikes in a disarray not at all studied these days.

That had almost certainly been part of it: the bogglement hadn't been all on one side, that was clear! But mainly, it became excruciatingly clear that anyone who attempted to prank Marshal Pentecost -- even if he hadn't been the **target** of the prank -- was in for swift, sure, and **deadly** retribution.

(Which had been made all that much worse by Raleigh Becket's valiantly stupid lie. But none of them were in a position to say much about **that** , when it came to it.)

So Anchorage Shatterdome sweated, and swore, and wore blisters through their work gloves, and thanked every power they believed in (and some they didn't) that they were where they were, and that their commander was the understanding sort, because it could have been **so much worse** than it was.

Even after the following month, when the Shipping, Internal Transport, and Hull Maintenance divisions received special commendations -- not electronic ones, either, nor even framed certificates. No, these **plaques** hailing the efficiency and dedication of each department **far** above and beyond duty's call were cast in the post-Space Age ferroceramcrete material that Jaeger heat-shield insulating plates were made of, and might well survive if the 'Dome itself were blown to rubble and ashes.

The respective division chiefs grit their teeth, accepted the commendations, and hung them in their respective break rooms, as a lasting reminder that while both Stacker Pentecost and Tendo Choi might **forgive** , they were _**not** _ the forgetting types.

The Marshal succeeded in not laughing **once** in front of Anchorage Dome.

In private teleconversation he was far less circumspect. (Even if it **was** mostly horrified laughter.)

"So how's the **cleanup** coming? Did you ever get an **explanation**?"

"Oh, **several**. Individually **none** of them make any sense but if you lean back and look at them all sideways it sort of **comes together** , like those picture-things. With the dots."

"His brother couldn't shed any light on it?"

"Yancy's a good lad but not much **given** to flights of fancy--"

"Good thing, that--"

"In any case he's got a very highly developed ability to tune out his -- **chatter**."

"Well he'd **have** to, wouldn't he? Be like having a puppy barkin' in your ear all the time, from what you say."

"I don't know **exactly** what happened or why. But, best I can figure, Raleigh Becket hit his upper limit for Conspiracist nonsense, **disrespect** for the **dead** and ignorant **fools** bad-mouthing his **comrades** , and **decided** that Something Should Be Done about it."

If you didn't know any better -- because of course it couldn't possibly be the case -- you might think there was something almost **admiring** in the way he shook his head at this.

" **Being** Raleigh Becket, that naturally meant sweet-talking the Conspiracists into giving him **all their swag** , and then displaying it as a **trophy**."

The Australian Ranger choked.

"They **really sent** fifteen thousand bumper stickers under **separate cover** to Anchorage **without** asking any questions? They're **that** stupid?"

"Weeell, now. You understand this is **all speculation** , because I can't **possibly** suggest that my LOCCENT chief would **ever** hack a private message-board's back channel, but my best guess is, that they **realized** very early on that these were going to the Shatterdome -- but they put **quite** the wrong construction on it."

"How so?"

"They **thought** it was **mutinous elements IN** the Corps, trying to show their support for The Truth without getting caught. So they figured to **encourage** them to throw off their shackles of ignorance and delusion -- by sending them sticker packets to distribute around the city."

"You mean, that's what your **best read** on the situtation was."

"Yes, quite."

"I just can't fathom **anybody** being mule-headed enough to set up fifteen-hundred different accounts and then clicking the mouse **ten times apiece** or whatever it was you said, heh."

"Really? Well, if you ever meet him in person, let me know if that **changes**."

"Ouch."

"Apparently if he'd **asked** anyone with the slightest bit of technical skill in such things he could have gotten something set up to do the same job in a matter of minutes. **Without** any need for manual intervention. But he didn't want to risk anyone else getting into **trouble**."

They shared a rueful grimace over the phone.

"His brother thought he was playin' a **video game** , said he kept waking him up every few hours to shout big numbers at him, thought he was on about a high score in some online thing."

"Well it **was** , wasn't it? And **then** he had to pry 'em all off. Almost feel **sorry** for the kid. How much longer's it gonna be?"

"It's **mostly** clear now. There might be a few small patches here and there, but they'll blend in or we'll paint over them. Next fight'll knock 'em all off anyway."

"Should have had the **crews** do it too, since they were just as guilty."

"It wouldn't have conveyed the **lesson** that I need him to learn. If he **has**. And they **did** help, under the cover of Maintenance Operations, or we **wouldn't** have gotten it done in time."

"Y'know, Stacker, if you **really** wanted to make sure he cleaned up his mess without any help, you **could** have posted a guard on the bay."

"This...is **not** the team-building excercise I would have come up with on my own, but...I'll take **any** help I can get."

"S'what I **thought**. Well, got to get ready for the circus. **God** , I hate parades."

"Just look at it this way, Herc -- if any Kaiju tries to attack on that date **again** , we'll be as ready as is humanly possible, with everyone already suited up and set for action."

"You don't think they're **capable** of planning things like that!?"

"No. But they **say** lightning never strikes twice, and how many unlucky people are there who've survived repeated hits?"

 **"UNlucky?** Don't you mean _**lucky** _ , eh?"

"Perhaps. The **terrifying** thing in all this is how easily he got everyone else to go along **with** it. Somehow he was able to convey to **dozens** of compentent, trained, older Corps members that this -- **solution** of his, was the **best** one."

"Well...yanks like to put flames on utes and vans, and motorboats an' stuff -- maybe they thought it was **fun?"**

"I don't mind him punking those blasted fools, I just can't fathom what he did **next!** And to get everyone else to help -- **what** am I missing? This isn't like taking a detour on the way home to have a picnic on the beach and watch whales! --I **wish** there was a recording of all that, I can only guess there's some mind control spell that **coincidentally** uses the syllable 'DOOD' in some unlikely number of repeats!"

"Prob'ly got to say 'EPIC' to invoke it, too."

 **"Whatever** it was, it'd be nice to be able to harness it to **constructive** purposes. I could send **him** to Washington next time there's a budget committee hearing, instead."

"Better him than **me.** Was it **very** bad this time?"

"Oh, the usual. I **did** have to point out that I'm a taxpayer too -- **and** twice over, so they'd best not try that one on! Can't shut **me** down that easily."

"Oh, 'sright, you never took citizenship, **did** you?"

"No, why **should** I? Got nothin' to prove."

"You know, it's crossing my mind right now, fifteen thousand brightly-colored glossy bumper stickers **can't** come **cheap."**

"Oh, they're **lots** cheaper if you purchase in quantity, just like anything else."

"Still. That's a tall order. **And** shipping them out under separate cover, from where is it? Somewhere in your lower forty-eight, anyways -- **that** can't be be very cheap, either!"

"Florida, I think. And it might even be **less** expensive to send 'em out in small bundles than one big pallet. Freightage costs never made sense here even before the War, I'm told."

"'S because you don't have proper **rail** there."

"You don't need to tell **me** that, I think about it every time I've got to navigate what they're amused to call 'public transportation' here. **But,** you know, **that** costs real money."

"So does **not** havin' any."

"Yes, but it doesn't cost **them** money. That's the **important** thing."

"Yeah, and **that's** why I keep bein' curious about how much money all your stickers cost."

"Not **MY** stickers, Herc, _**Raleigh Becket's stickers."**_

 **"Your** Shatterdome, mate, **your** stickers."

Pentecost bit his tongue, very obviously.

"No, I **mean** it. Stop bein' pissed off at your boy's **stupidity** and look at the big picture, Stacker -- somebody's put some **serious money** into this business of Kaiju Conspiracy talk, I know radio's cheap what with the internet but **billboards?** They're not cheap. Remember how much ours cost?"

Hansen's bluff, craggy face hid a very keen mind, but only to those who didn't know him at all well.

"Advertising, swag, where **the hell** are they gettin' the money to pay for all this? **Or** the staff to pack up and post fifteen hundred packets _**overnight?** _ Somebody is very, **very** interested in gettin' that message out."

He looked meaningfully at the Englishman until the latter sighed and closed his eyes.

"If I make Tendo spend his off-hours dredging through Conspiracist deep background, he'll **never** forgive me."

"You know damn well there's not a one of us in the Corps wouldn't give **both** eyeteeth to get a crack at the people who think that nuking the fuck out of the Kaiju's a better idea than Jaegers."

 **"You** think they're the **same ones**."

 **"Don't** give me that, I've known you too long. I know you can't **say** it because they're **also** the same ones more than happy to sell us steel and silicon and iridium and whatnot -- but just because **they** play both sides of the table dun' mean we have to **play along.** Well, we **do** have to play along, but we don't have to **pretend** to **ourselves** !"

The Marshal glared at him.

The Ranger glared right back.

"I know you were stuck doin' the diplomatic rounds all those years but you're _**not** _ a politician -- **so don't** _****_ **ACT like one."**

Pentecost's face cleared suddenly.

"Sorry -- you've been up 'round the clock too, haven't you?"

 **"Don't. Even."** The picture wobbled a bit, as if the huge hands cradling the phone were shaking. **"You laid it on me** _**yonks ago**_ to **take you** _**out** _ if you **ever** turned into another Colonel Blimp. Well, consider **this** a _**warning shot,** _ mate."

This was **not** the sort of conversation to be having long distance -- a dangerous enough one to carry on in person, let alone speaking across the entire Pacific Ocean, both halves of it. But there is neither East nor West when two strong man stand face to face via cell phone chat window, and Herc Hansen, the only living being who'd ever outstared Stacker Pentecost, could teach stubborn to **rocks.**

The Marshal bowed his head.

"Right. --I'll look into it," he said, and skies cleared overhead, or it felt like it, anyway. Then he suddenly snapped his fingers, brows narrowing, and exclaimed, "Banksy!"

_**"Hello?"** _

"The artist. Paints on **walls.** It's a London thing, maybe you--"

"I _**know** _ who **Banksy** is, I'm not a **complete** ocker, I'm just not seein' the connection to _**bumper stickers on a Jaeger."** _

"Graffiti! But no **ordinary** graffiti, graffiti as **satire** on top of protest....more **Warhol** than Banksy, I guess -- silkscreened, even, I'm pretty sure that's **still** how they make those things."

"Strewth! Don't tell me you're wishing you let them go **through** with it, now!"

"All right, I **won't."**

The Australian smirked.

"You **should've** left it on for another week -- can't you just see her strollin' down the boulevard covered in Conspiracist propaganda? I can just **imagine** their faces in Washington, turnin' it back on 'em."

"Hah! --No," he sighed regretfully. "No, it wouldn't have been **respectful** of the dead The **idea** had merit but the execution -- if his own Drift partner can't understand it, if it took **me** this long to work it out with dozens of the culprits **trying** their best to explain it, the media wouldn't have a **prayer** of getting the message."

**"Righto."**

"Yes, it's a great **relief** to know I don't have to worry about Contagious Derangement Syndrome or anything like that -- just a work of performance art that turned out a bit too **high-concept** in its ambitions."

_**And a bloody idiot genius who drags older, wiser veterans along in his over-the-top adventures--!** _

This time, instead of signing off by thanking his friend for **listening** , Pentecost said, "Thanks for telling me what I needed to **hear** , Herc."

"Just doin' my job."

"You're the only one with the ranks to **do** it, these days."

"Not **ranks** , not any more," the Ranger said, with a lightness to his tone that covered a wealth of sorrows for them both.

"Time in grade, then, as they say over here." The Marshal matched him lightness for lightness, because there **were** no words for the anguish at being technically responsible for sending his best friend into battle, even if the thousands of miles and hours of distance combined with the practical independence of each Shatterdome meant that he didn't have to bear the direct personal responsibility of that command, not when **he** was the one stuck piloting a desk and couldn't even share the risks, these days.

No more could he say how he dreaded every southwesterly Incursion, as much or more as the few that headed up their way -- dreaded them as he dreaded the inevitable notifications and the letters that must follow; nor did telling himself that the commanders of his grandfather's generation had had to write them nearly **daily** , and mostly for combat deaths **not** accidents, help one bit.

It wasn't as if their friendship allowed him to protect them better, even **if** such favoritism had been ethical -- he **wasn't** on the spot, **couldn't** be, and it was up to Australia to fund their own Jaegers -- the absolute best he could do was make sure SD-SY had all the latest R &D and all his moral support in **their** Parliament debates, which was what he gave every 'Dome, the better to protect them _**all--** _

He did his best not to show any outward difference, when monitoring battles involving the Australian Jaegers, and so far as he knew **, succeeded.**

He'd promised Herc as solemnly as the other man had promised him the same in return, to take care of his boy in the event of -- and God alone knew **how** he'd manage that, but there was no point in agonizing over whether it would be worse to pull the lad out of the only stability he had left, when it was no longer such, and how he would adjust to a new country and a new language both, or if he should haul **both** children over and settle them **here** , since Mako at least had excellent English skills to give her grounding and he'd be right here for her, or--

Hansen leaned in towards the phone's camera, as if he could reach across the wide ocean and grip his friend by the shoulders, through it.

"You **look after** yourself, mate. That's an **order."**

"We'll **get** through this," he assured him. "We always **do,"** and rang off right then, because he **couldn't** break down, not with all those speeches and press releases to finish writing, and it being imperative that he call Japan before it got so late here that it was already tomorrow on this side of the Date Line.

 **Not** _**again.** _

At least it was summer hols now, so he wouldn't be interrupting homework, and Aomori was far enough away from the capital (not to say pretty much everywhere) that the upcoming K-Day rubbish shouldn't be **too** triggering of bad memories --

_**Oh DAMN, there'll be flybys at Misawa, won't there?** _

But he could ask the Asais to take her someplace nice out in the countryside, perhaps to Hirosaki, she'd liked the castle when he'd taken her there last fall & expressed a desire to come back again -- though it **might** be crowded, between the season and the chance that other people would be wanting to think about anything **BUT** the war, just as badly. Well, there was always hiking in the mountains, that would probably be acceptable to all of them too...

Technically he could **order** Shiori-san, of course, but that would be both rude **and** unnecessary -- not a member of the Corps wouldn't leap at the opportunity to be as far away from the public eye as possible that day, if only duty allowed!

Well, there was duty and there was **duty,** and he'd already presumed enough on their family by asking them to look after Mako for him, **and** her education, since even technology wouldn't let him be in two places at once -- and he wasn't about to disrupt her life any more by uprooting her and transplanting her to, for God's sake, **Anchorage** with its _**five hours of daylight**_ in the winter, you might as well **be** on a submarine for all the good that did--

(That she'd been **begging** him to uproot her and transplant her to the Jaeger Academy for a very long time was something he resolutely did **not** think about.)

Someone **else** could staff the recruiting office desk that day -- and honestly, they'd do better to lock the doors entirely, anybody who wanted to sign up on K-Day was odds-on favorite to wash out before the first week -- and they could **all** enjoy the fresh air and scenic views for him, and send him lots of pictures, and not think about Kaiju or television interviews or school schedules or anything unpleasant **at all--**

The continuing conversation with the school authorities over The Incident back during first semester was **also** something he shouldn't put off, though it might not be the best timing, **nor** the best idea to conduct it whilst so on edge--

He had been rather shocked, not just **disappointed** , but he really **had** thought things were different to Britain in that regard, to the point where Shiori had sent him a packet of comic books and shows to watch, noting that they **were** overdramatized being dramas, and usually bullies didn't get annihilated by demons or suddenly-manifesting psychic powers from their victims, and this had all been very low-level stuff according to Mako herself, until they'd dared her to climb up onto the school roof and she _**had.** _

Which she **still** thought was low-level stuff, herself, and didn't understand why everyone was making a **fuss** about it, any more than she understood why the older junior high kids thought it was either too scary **or** too difficult for her to tackle.

Which admittedly was **his** fault, since he'd taken her bouldering that time at Moya Hills when it started raining, and it had been **such** a hit he'd gotten her a membership of her own at the climbing place, so that she could go on her own free time whenever the fancy struck her.

_**We could have gone to the Aquarium that day, why didn't I think to take her to the Aquarium instead? Well, because I thought it would make her think of Kaiju, that's why...and then with our luck they'd have dared her to steal a boat or dive off a pier or something!** _

It was terrifying, being responsible for young people with no sense of risk **or** proper perspective on what was and **wasn't** dangerous -- and **worse** , when you had to trust strange adults to be on watch and **make** those calls for them, and they **fell down** on the job.

And **then** suggested that it was her fault, for being short and weird, and not **good** at "making friends," as if you could turn them out with a drill press or a plastic printer!

All of which boiled down to, **not** from around here and **not** fitting into our established social hierarchies, particularly the one where you **don't question** adults in official positions -- funny how that managed to stay a constant everywhere you went, whenver or wherever you looked! -- and we can't **do anything** about it because _**you're** _ the head of the Pan Pacific Defense Corps, even though everyone has to **pretend** that Mori-san is just another ordinary kid like all the other kids from the airbase -- so we'll just passively (yet **entirely** aggressively) play office politics games with her...

_**Oh hell, if they were willing to look the other way while other kids taunted her for being small and weak -- and then come down on her for doing dangerous things in answer to their dares, they DESERVE a bit of tail-chewing!** _

There are **several** old military sayings that are commonly applied in such cases, but they all boil down to Kit Marlowe's explanation for why Lucifer seeks to purchase the souls of mortal men -- "Solamen miseris socios habuisse doloris," or as it's more usually heard, "Misery loves company"--

It wasn't even like he'd had to abuse LOCCENT's powers to get the private phone numbers for the principal and other senior school personnel, Shiori had gotten them through the local grapevine from other disgruntled or frustrated parents and caretakers, and **anything** was better than trying to write K-Day eulogies--

At least, that had been the feeling, before impasse turned to siege warfare and a no-win situation: he should have remembered that there **was** no winning gambit dealing with school administrators -- at least not the ones he was determined not to be like -- the ones who wouldn't negotiate with **anyone** whose family didn't own a great deal of land or local business interests or have strong societal presence...and Shatterdomes didn't count as the first, the PPDC didn't exactly encourage tourism, and reminding everyone of constantly-impending doom wasn't what **anyone** meant by social cachet, alas.

When the principal had suggested that Mako might do better in a private boarding school -- a _**finishing** _ school, no less! -- he didn't really have any option but to call the man's bluff, which meant he now had _**yet ANOTHER** _ disaster on his desk to solve right away. At least there was over a month left of summer hols! It could be so much worse...

He **couldn't** put her back in the Tokyo 'Dome again -- even though there'd be no **technical** problem, Mako was both smart and obedient enough to not get hurt, despite her age (ironic, it truly was, how a Jaeger base could turn out less **dangerous** than a normal school in a small town in the country) -- after all, part of the problem had been that nobody had ever SAID "don't climb the drainpipes and windowsills up onto the roof," because it was assumed to be understood without saying.

(Which was **stupid.** Student welcome speeches at the Jaeger Academy included a brief discussion of gravity and **what exactly** "32 feet / 9.75 meters per second per second" **meant** for the human skeleton and therefore why jumping down the stairwells, among other things, was prohibited. Their drop surgeons were very good at drawing pictures, with **and** without words, of what could happen to lower leg bones and other things **equally** crucial to the aspiring Ranger.)

_**All right, THAT was a bit of Academy instruction she could do to get early--** _

But he wasn't worried about her getting underfoot in the danger zones, she wasn't foolhardy really. She could stay in his quarters, they could find no **end** of qualified tutors on base in any subject --it was the fact that it was **Tokyo** and **he** wouldn't be there this time, that would make a nervous wreck of her again in no time.

So he needed to figure out what would be best, and under a deadline, with no very good track record of picking a conveniently-located secondary school that hadn't got a denied bullying problem!

_**1-0, Mr. Pentecost -- would you like to try again?** _

He grimaced, not even knowing how you could go about determining such a thing -- hire a teenager to go undercover and report back? Even if it were **ethical** , how could you control all the variables?

Japan, America -- it wasn't going to magically solve **anything** , to relocate her here, even if the idea of being closer **was** an attractive one. Even if he threw his weight around, made it **clear** that she WAS his ward, and he WAS involved -- so **very** involved -- in her school career, **and** her wellbeing -- even if the teachers **did** go out of their way to take care of her, who could say what sort of covert nastiness other students might inflict on her? Might make them resent her where they wouldn't have, even--

(There was also a lurking dread of what might happen if she and the Beckets joined forces, whether **she** incited **them** to new heights of mindlessly exuberant mischief or **they _her_** , because he had **no** illusions that **any** of them would serve as a restraining influence on any other of them, assuming they hit it off! while behind **that** lay an even more surreptitiously-lurking dread of what would happen to her in that case, if -- and he was resolved it **wouldn't** be a _**when**_ , but then he had been **before** , too -- something happened and they didn't come back.)

_**And besides -- let's BE honest about this, for once -- if I bring her to Anchorage then I have NO excuse left, not any that I can make STICK, for not letting her attend classes early at the Academy. Which means she'll be in a Jaeger before she's legally able to drive an automobile. And THAT is not happening. No way in hell! I am NOT losing her back to the beasts--** _

This was also the problem with SD-LA, only pushed a little further down the road, and Panama, and Lima, and basically anywhere on the eastern side of the sea, and he glared at the maps on his screen, which remained inflexible in the face of human willpower...

He resolutely did **not** think _**at all** _ about the fact that neither of them had anybody else **left,** that normal human beings had large extended families to turn to, when difficulties cropped up, and he'd signed enough leaves of absence to know all about **that--**

And then it hit him, an absolutely **brilliant** solution, at least for the short term. She'd be as safe as anywhere in the world, the tutoring problem again wasn't one, there was a fair-size Japanese community beyond Corps personnel, **and** she'd be in the care of someone he trusted without **any** reservation whatsoever.

And **he'd** have a legitmate excuse to fly down to Sydney, on a regular or at least **vastly less irregular** basis -- not **quite** as easy or as often as Aomori had been, sitting right above Tokyo and across from Vladivostok, but he'd **find** a way to make it work, during the Betweens.

Quickly, before he could second-guess himself, Pentecost typed a quick text-only--

_**Herc -- how do you find the idea of Mako coming to stay at SD-SY, at least until I can sort something better out for her? Aomori's not working out, and I wouldn't condemn ANYONE to Anchorage who wasn't from around here. Not even a Budget Committee. Don't answer, just think about it and get back to me after this circus is over. --SP** _

And then he hit **SEND,** before he could second-guess any of that, and called Mako to see how she might feel about an extended visit to SD-SY and no more stupid secondary school, and yes there was a kendo club in Sydney so there was, apparently, **nothing** she would miss about that school (though from the sound of his earlier conversations, the kendo club wouldn't miss her **quite** as much -- which was again, **his** fault for teaching her forms geared to winning instead of competition style and, well, teaching her **that** winning was the key thing, **not** style) and Aomori was small and boring anyway and could she get a surfboard, please? she could order one online right now -- or should she wait until they got to Australia and ask which one was best, first?

At which point he said he needed to talk to Shiori-san and make sure that they all understood that he was **completely** in their debt and their family was in no way to blame or at fault for **any** of the school mess, because he knew he was going to lose **that** one too and so might as well put it off a little longer, just as he knew there wouldn't be any objections from Herc, no matter how diffidently he'd phrased his request.

(But he never **did** have any second thoughts, about any of that.)

**Author's Note:**

> square footage calculations assume a typical US full size bumper sticker of 3" x 8"
> 
> Misawa : [ http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Misawa_Air_Base ](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Misawa_Air_Base) a joint US / Japanese facility


End file.
